[] THE DUENNA: AN OPERA.

SCENE I. —A STREET.

PAST three o'clock! ſoh! a notable hour for one of my regular diſpoſition to be ſtrolling like a bravo thro' the ſtreets of Seville; well, of all ſervices, to ſerve a young lover is the hardeſt—not that I am an enemy to love; but my love and my maſter's differ ſtrangely—Don Ferdinand is much too gallant to eat, drink or ſleep—now, my love gives me an appetite—then I am fond of dreaming of my miſtreſs, and I love dearly to toaſt her—This cannot be done without good ſleep, and good liquor, hence my partiality to a feather bed and a bottle—what a pity now, that I have not further time for reflections; but my maſter ex⯑pects thee, honeſt Lopez, to ſecure his retreat from [2] Donna Clara's window, as I gueſs

hey! ſure I heard muſic! ſo! ſo! who have we here? Oh, Don Antonio, my maſter's friend, come from the maſquerade to ſerenade my young miſtreſs, Donna Louiſa, I ſuppoſe! ſoh! we ſhall have the old gentleman up preſently—leſt he ſhould miſs his ſon, I had beſt loſe no time in getting to my poſt.

Antonio, your miſtreſs will never wake while you ſing ſo dolefully; love, like a cradled in⯑fant, is lull'd by a ſad melody.

I do not wiſh to diſturb her reſt.

The reaſon is, becauſe you know ſhe does not regard you enough, to appear if you waked her.

Then, I'll convince you.

SCENE II. —A PIAZZA.

Truly, ſir, I think that a little ſleep once in a week or ſo—

Peace, fool, don't mention ſleep to me.

No, no, ſir, I don't mention your low-bred, vulgar, ſound ſleep; but I can't help thinking that a [4] gentle ſlumber, or half an hour's dozing, if it were only for the novelty of the thing.

Peace, booby, I ſay, O Clara, dear, cruel diſturber of my reſt.

And of mine too.

S'death! to trifle with me at ſuch a juncture as this—now to ſtand on punctilios—love me! I don't believe ſhe ever did.

Nor I either.

Or is it that her ſex never know their de⯑ſires for an hour together.

Ah, they know them oftner than they'll own them.

Is there in the world ſo inconſtant a creature as Clara?

I could name one.

Yes; the tame fool who ſubmits to her caprice.

I thought he cou'dn't miſs it.

Is ſhe not capricious, teizing, tyrannical, obſtinate, perverſe, abſurd, ay, a wilderneſs of faults and follies, her looks are ſcorn, and her very ſmiles—s'death! I wiſh I hadn't mentioned her ſmiles; for ſhe does ſmile ſuch beaming lovelineſs, ſuch faſcinating brightneſs—O death and madneſs, I ſhall die if I loſe her.

O thoſe damn'd ſmiles have undone all.

Here comes Don Antonio, ſir.

Well, go you home—I ſhall be there pre⯑ſently.

Ah thoſe curſt ſmiles.

Antonio, Lopez tells me he left you chaunt⯑ing before our door—was my father wak'd?

Yes, yes; he has a ſingular affection for muſic, ſo I left him roaring at his barr'd window like the print of Bajazet in the cage. And what brings you out ſo early?

I believe I told you that to morrow was the day fix'd by Don Pedro and Clara's unnatural ſtep-mother, for her to enter a convent, in order that her brat might poſſeſs her fortune, made deſperate by this, I procur'd a key to the door, and birb'd Clara's maid to leave it unbolted; at two this morning I en⯑tered, unperceived, and ſtole to her chamber—I found her waking and weeping.

Happy Ferdinand!

'Sdeath, hear the concluſion—I was rated as the moſt confident ruffian, for daring to approach her room at that hour of night.

Ay, ay, this was at firſt.

No ſuch thing! ſhe would not hear a word from me, but threatened to raiſe her mother if I did not inſtantly leave her.

Well; but at laſt?

At laſt! why I was forced to leave the houſe as he came in.

And did you do nothing to offend her?

Nothing, as I hope to be ſaved—I believe I might ſnatch a dozen or two of kiſſes.

Was that all? well, I think I never heard of ſuch aſſurance.

Zounds! I tell you I behaved with the ut⯑moſt reſpect.

O lord! I don't mean you, but in her—but, hark'y', Ferdinand, did you leave your key with them?

Yes; the maid who ſaw me out took it from the door.

Then my life for it, her miſtreſs elopes after you.

Ay, to bleſs my rival perhaps—I am in a humour to ſuſpect every body—you lov'd her once, and thought her an angel, as I do now.

Yes, I loved her till I found ſhe wou'dn't love me, and then I diſcovered that ſhe hadn't a good feature in her face.

Beſides, Ferdinand, you have full ſecurity in my love for your ſiſter, help me there, and I can never diſturb you with Clara.

As far as I can conſiſtently with the honour of our family, you know I will; but there muſt be no eloping.

And yet now, you would carry off Clara.

Ay, that's a different caſe, we never mean that others ſhould act to our ſiſters and wives as we do [7] to others—But to-morrow Clara is to be forc'd into a convent.

Well: and am not I ſo unfortunately cir⯑cumſtanc'd? To-morrow your father forces Louiſa to marry Iſaac, the Portugueze—but come with me, and we'll deviſe ſomething, I warrant.

I muſt go home.

Well, adieu.

But, Antonio, if you did not love my ſiſter, you have too much honour and friendſhip to ſupplant me with Clara.

There is always a levity in Antonio's man⯑ner of replying to me on this ſubject, that is very alarming—'Sdeath, if Clara ſhould love him after all.

SCENE —A room in Don JEROME's houſe.

But my dear Margaret, my charming Duenna, do you think we ſhall ſucceed?

I tell you again I have no doubt on't; but it muſt be inſtantly put to the trial—Every thing is prepared in your room, and for the reſt we muſt truſt to fortune.

My father's oath was never to ſee me till I had conſented to—

I was thus I overheard him ſay to his friend, Don Guzman, ‘"I will demand of her to⯑morrow, once for all, whether ſhe will conſent to marry Iſaac Mendoza—If ſhe heſitates, I will make a ſolemn oath never to ſee or ſpeak to her till ſhe re⯑turns to her duty"’—theſe were his words.

And on his known obſtinate adherence to what he has once ſaid, you have form'd this plan for my eſcape—But have you ſecured my maid in our intereſt?

She is a party in the whole—but re⯑member, if we ſucceed, you reſign all right and title in little Iſaac the Jew, over to me.

That I do with all my ſoul, get him if you can, and I ſhall wiſh you joy moſt heartily. He is twenty times as rich as my poor Antonio.

I hear Don Jerome coming—Quick, give me the laſt letter I brought you from Antonio—you know that is to be the ground of my diſmiſſion—I muſt ſlip out to ſeal it up as undelivered.

What, I ſuppoſe you have been ſerenad⯑ing too! Eh, diſturbing ſome peaceable neighbour⯑hood with villainous catgut and laſcivious piping, out on't! you ſet your ſiſter here a vile example—but I come to tell you, madam, that I'll ſuffer no more of theſe midnight incantations, theſe amorous orgies that ſteal the ſenſes in the hearing; as they ſay Egyptian embalmers ſerve mummies, extracting the brain thro' the ears; however, there's an end of your frolics—Iſaac Mendoza will be here preſently, and to-morrow you ſhall marry him.

Never while I have life.

Indeed, ſir, I wonder how you can think of ſuch a man for a ſon-in-law.

Sir, you are very kind to favour me with your ſentiments—and pray, what is your objection to him?

He is a Portugueze in the firſt place.

No ſuch thing, boy, he has forſworn his country.

He is a Jew.

Another miſtake: he has been a Chriſtian theſe ſix weeks.

Ay, he has left his old religion for an eſtate, and has not had time to get a new one,

But ſtands like a dead wall between church and ſynagogue, or like the blank leaves between the Old and New Teſtament.

Any thing more?

But the moſt remarkable part of his charac⯑ter, is his paſſion for deceit, and tricks of cunning.

Tho' at the ſame time, the fool predomi⯑nates ſo much over the knave, that I am told he is generally the dupe of his own art.

True, like an unſkilful gunner, he uſually miſſes his aim, and is hurt by the recoil of his own piece.

Any thing more?

To ſum up all, he has the worſt fault a huſband can have—he's not my choice.

But you are his; and choice on one ſide is ſufficient—two lovers ſhould never meet in mar⯑riage—be you ſour as you pleaſe, he is ſweet-temper'd, and for your good fruit, there's nothing like ingrafting on a crab.

I deteſt him as a lover, and ſhall ten times more as a huſband.

I don't know that—marriage generally makes a great change—but to cut the matter ſhort, will you have him or not?

There is nothing elſe I could diſobey you in.

Do you value your father's peace?

So much, that I will not faſten on him the regret of making an only daughter wretched.

Very well, ma'am, then mark me—never more will I ſee or converſe with you till you return to your duty—no reply—this and your chamber ſhall be [11] your apartments, I never will ſtir out without leaving you under lock and key, and when I'm at home no creature can approach you but thro' my library—we'll try who can be moſt obſtinate—out of my ſight—There remain till you know your duty.

Surely, ſir, my ſiſter's inclinations ſhould be conſulted in a matter of this kind, and ſome regard paid to Don Antonio, being my particular friend.

That, doubtleſs, is a very great recommen⯑dation—I certainly have not paid ſufficient reſpect to it.

There is not a man living I would ſooner chuſe for a brother-in-law.

Very poſſible; and if you happen to have e'er a ſiſter, who is not at the ſame time a daughter of mine, I'm ſure I ſhall have no objection to the relati⯑onſhip—but at preſent, if you pleaſe, we'll drop the ſubject.

Nay, ſir, 'tis only my regard for my ſiſter makes me ſpeak.

Then, pray, ſir, in future, let your regard for your father make you hold your tongue.

I have done, ſir—I ſhall only add a wiſh that you would reflect what at our age you would have felt, had you been croſt in your affection for the mo⯑ther of her you are ſo ſevere to.

Why I muſt confeſs I had a great affecti⯑on for your mother's ducats, but that was all, boy—I married her for her fortune, and ſhe took me in obe⯑dience to her father, and a very happy couple we were—we never expected any love from one another, and ſo we were never diſappointed—If we grumbled a little now and then, it was ſoon over, for we were never fond enough to quarrel, and when the good wo⯑man died, why, why—I had as lieve ſhe had lived, and I wiſh every widower in Seville could ſay the ſame—I ſhall now go and get the key of this dreſſ⯑ing room—So, good ſon, if you have any lecture in [12] ſupport of diſobedience to give your ſiſter, it muſt be brief; ſo make the beſt of your time d'ye hear.

I fear indeed, my friend Antonio, has little to hope for—however Louiſa has firmneſs, and my fa⯑ther's anger will probably only increaſe her affection—In our intercourſe with the world, it is natural for us to diſlike thoſe who are innocently the cauſe of our diſtreſs; but in the heart's attachment, a woman ne⯑ver likes a man with ardour till ſhe has ſuffered for his ſake

Soh! what buſtle is here! between my father and the Duenna too—I'll e'en get out of the way.

I'm aſtoniſhed! I'm thunder ſtruck! here's treachery and conſpiracy with a vengeance! you, An⯑tonio's creature, and chief manager of this plot for my daughter's eloping! you that I placed here as a ſcare-crow.

What?

A ſcare-crow—To prove a decoy-duck—what have you to ſay for yourſelf?

Well, ſir, ſince you have forced that let⯑ter from me, and diſcovered my real ſentiments, I ſcorn to renounce 'em—I am Antonio's friend, and it was my intention that your daughter ſhould have ſerv'd you as all ſuch old tyrannical ſots ſhould be ſerv'd—I delight in the tender paſſions, and would be⯑friend all under their influence.

The tender paſſions! yes, they would be⯑come thoſe impenetrable features—why, thou deceit⯑ful hag! I plac'd thee as a guard to the rich bloſ⯑ſoms of my daughter's beauty—I thought that dragon's front of thine would cry aloof to the ſons of gallan⯑try—ſteel traps and ſpring guns ſeem'd writ in every wrinkle of it—but you ſhall quit my houſe this in⯑ſtant—the tender paſſions, indeed! go, thou wanton ſybil, thou amorous woman of Endor, go!

You baſe, ſcurrilous old—but I won't demean myſelf by naming what you are—yes, ſavage, I'll leave your den, but I ſuppoſe you don't mean to detain my apparel—I may have my things I pre⯑ſume.

I took you, miſtreſs, with your wardrobe on—what have you pilfer'd, heh?

Sir, I muſt take leave of my miſtreſs, ſhe has valuables of mine, beſides, my cardinal and veil are in her room.

Your veil forſooth! what, do you dread being gazed at? or are you afraid of your complexion? well, go take your leave, and get your veil and cardi⯑nal! ſoh! you quit the houſe within theſe five mi⯑nutes—In—in—quick

Here was a precious plot of miſchief! theſe are the comforts daughters bring us.

This way, miſtreſs, this way—what, I warrant, a tender parting—ſoh! tears of turpentine [14] down thoſe deal cheeks—Aye, you may well hide your head—yes, whine till your heart breaks, but I'll not hear one word of excuſe—ſo you are right to be dumb, this way—this way.

So ſpeed you well, ſagacious Don Je⯑rome! O, rare effects of paſſion and obſtinacy—now ſhall I try whether I can't play the fine lady as well as my miſtreſs, and if I ſucceed, I may be a fine lady for the reſt of my life—I'll loſe no time to equip my⯑ſelf.

SCENE IV. The Court before DON JEROME's houſe.

Come, miſtreſs, there is your way—The world lies before you, ſo troop, thou antiquated Eve, thou original ſin—hold, yonder is ſome fellow ſkulking, perhaps it is Antonio—go to him, d'ye hear, and tell him to make you amends, and as he has got you turn'd away, tell him I ſay it is but juſt he ſhou'd take you himſelf, go.

Soh! I am rid of her, thank heaven! and now I ſhall be able to keep my oath, and confine my daughter with better ſecurity.

SCENE V. —The PIAZZA.

But where madam, is it you intend to go?

Any where to avoid the ſelfiſh violence of my mother-in-law, and Ferdinand's inſolent impor⯑tunity.

Indeed, ma'am, ſince we have profited by [15] Don Ferdinand's key in making our eſcape, I think we had beſt find him, if it were only to thank him.

No—he has offended me exceedingly.

So, I have ſucceeded in being turn'd out of doors—but how ſhall I find Antonio? I dare not enquire for him for fear of being diſcovered; I would ſend to my friend Clara, but that I doubt her pru⯑dery wou'd condemn me.

Then ſuppoſe, ma'am, you were to try if your friend Donna Louiſa would not receive you.

No, her notions of filial duty are ſo ſevere, ſhe would certainly betray me.

Clara is of a cold temper, and would this ſtep of mine highly forward.

Louiſa's reſpect for her father is ſo great, ſhe would not credit the unkindneſs of mine.

Ha! who are thoſe? ſure one is Clara—if it be, I'll truſt her—Clara!

Louiſa! and in Maſquerade too!

You will be more ſurprized when I tell you that I have run away from my father.

Surprized indeed! and I ſhould certainly chide you moſt horridly, only that I have juſt run away from mine.

My dear Clara!

Dear ſiſter truant! and whither are you going?

To find the man I love to be ſure—And I preſume you wou'd have no averſion to meet with my brother.

Indeed I ſhould—he has behaved ſo ill to me, I don't believe I ſhall ever forgive him.

Well, for all this, I would have ſent him to plead his pardon, but that I would not yet a while have him know of my flight. And where do you hope to find protection?

The lady Abbeſs of the convent of St. Ca⯑therine is a relation and kind friend of mine—I ſhall be ſecure with her, and you had beſt go thither with me.

No; I am determined to find Antonio firſt, and as I live, here comes the very man I will employ to ſeek him for me.

Who is he? he's a ſtrange figure!

Yes, that ſweet creature is the man whom my father has fixed on for my huſband.

And will you, ſpeak to him? Are you mad?

He is the fitteſt man in the world for my purpoſe—for, tho' I was to have married him to⯑morrow, he is the only man in Seville, who, I am ſure never ſaw me in his life.

And how do you know him?

He arrived but yeſterday, and he was ſhewn me from the window as he viſited my father.

Well, I'll be gone

Hold, my dear Clara—a thought has ſtruck me, will you give me leave to borrow your name as I ſee occaſion.

It will but diſgrace you—but uſe it as you pleaſe—I dare not ſtay

but, Louiſa, if you ſhould ſee your brother, be ſure you don't inform him that I have taken refuge with the Dame Prior of the convent of St. Catherine, on the left hand ſide of the Piazza which leads to the church of St Anthony.

Ha, ha, ha! I'll be very particular in my directions where he may not find you.

So! my ſwain yonder has done admir⯑ing himſelf and draws nearer.

I tell you, friend Carlos, I will pleaſe myſelf in the habit of my chin.

But, my dear friend, how can you think to pleaſe a lady with ſuch a face?

Why, what's the matter with the face? I think it is a very engaging face; and I am ſure a lady muſt have very little taſte, who could diſlike my beard

See now—I'll die if here is not a little damſel ſtruck with it already.

Signor, are you diſpoſed to oblige a lady who greatly wants your aſſiſtance?

Egad, a very pretty black-eyed girl; ſhe has certainly taken a fancy to me, Carlos—firſt ma'am. I muſt beg the favour of your name.

Soh! It's well I am provided.

My name, ſir, is Donna Clara D'Almanza.

What!—Don Guzman's daughter? I'faith, I juſt now heard ſhe was miſſing.

But ſure, ſir, you have too much gallantry and honor to betray me, whoſe fault is love.

So! a paſſion for me! poor girl! why, ma'am, as for betraying you, I don't ſee how I could get any thing by it; ſo you may rely on my honour; but as for your love, I am ſorry your caſe is ſo deſpe⯑rate.

Why ſo, ſignor?

Becauſe I'm poſitively engaged to another—an't I, Carlos?

Nay, but hear me.

No, no; what ſhould I hear for? It is im⯑poſſible for me to court you in an honourable way; and for any thing elſe, if I were to comply now; I ſuppoſe you have ſome ungrateful brother, or couſin, who would want to cut my throat for my civility—ſo, truly you had beſt go home again.

Odious wretch!

But, good ſignor, it is Antonio d'Ercilla, on whoſe account I have eloped.

How! what! it is not with me then, that you are in love?

No indeed it is not.

Then you are a forward, impertinent ſim⯑pleton! and I ſhall certainly acquaint your father.

Is this your gallantry

Yet hold—Antonio d'Ercilla did you ſay? egad, I may make ſomething of this—Antonio d'Ercilla?

Yes, and if ever you hope to proſper in love, you will bring me to him.

By St. Iago, and I will too—Carlos, this Antonio is one who rivals me (as I have heard) with Louiſa—now, if I could hamper him with this girl, I ſhould have the field to myſelf, hey, Carlos! A lucky thought, isn't it?—

Yes, very good—very good—

Ah, this little brain is never at a loſs—cun⯑ning Iſaac! cunning rogue! Donna Clara, will you truſt yourſelf awhile to my friend's direction?

May I rely on you, good ſignor?

Lady, it is impoſſible I ſhould deceive you.

I'll conduct the lady to my lodgings, Carlos; I muſt haſte to Don Jerome—perhaps you know Louiſa, ma'am. She is divinely handſome—isn't ſhe?

You muſt excuſe me not joining with you.

Why, I have heard it on all hands.

Her father is uncommonly partial to her, but I believe you will find ſhe has rather a matronly air.

Carlos, this is all envy—you pretty girls never ſpeak well of one another—harky', find out Antonio, and I'll ſaddle him with this ſcrape, I war⯑rant! oh, 'twas the luckieſt thought—Donna Clara, your very obedient—Carlos, to your poſt.

SCENE I —A Library in Jerome's Houſe.

Ha, ha, ha! run away from her father! has ſhe given him the ſlip! Ha, ha, ha! poor Don Guzman!

Ay; and I am to conduct her to Antonio; by which means you ſee I ſhall hamper him ſo that he can give me no diſturbance with your daughter—this is trap, isn't it? a nice ſtroke of cunning, heh!

Excellent! Excellent! yes, yes, carry her to him, hamper him by all means, ha, ha, ha! poor Don Guzman! an old fool! impoſed on by a girl!

Nay, they have the cunning of ſerpents, that's the truth on't.

Pſha! they are cunning only when they have fools to deal with—why don't my girl play me ſuch a trick—let her cunning over-reach my caution, I ſay—heh little Iſaac!

True, true; or let me ſee any of the ſex make a fool of me—No, no, egad, little Solomon, (as my aunt uſed to call me) underſtands tricking a little too well.

Ay, but ſuch a driveller as Don Guzman.

And ſuch a dupe as Antonia.

True; ſure never were ſeen ſuch a couple of credulous ſimpletons, but come, 'tis time you ſhould ſee my daughter—you muſt carry on the ſiege by yourſelf, friend Iſaac,

Sir, you'll introduce—

No—I have ſworn a ſolemn oath not to ſee or ſpeak to her till ſhe renounces her diſobedience: [22] win her to that, and ſhe gains a father and a huſband at once.

Gad, I ſhall never be able to deal with her alone; nothing keeps me in ſuch awe as perfect beauty—now there is ſomething conſoling and encouraging in uglineſs.

You will change your note, my friend, when you've ſeen Louiſa.

O Don Jerome, the honour of your alli⯑ance—

Aye, but her beauty will affect you—ſhe is, tho' I ſay it, who am her father, a very prodigy—there you will ſee Peatures with an eye like mine—yes I'faith, there is a kind of wicked ſparkling—ſomething of a roguiſh brightneſs that ſhews her to be my own.

Pretty rogue!

Then, when ſhe ſmiles, you'll ſee a little dimple in one cheek only; a beauty it is certainly, yet you ſhall not ſay which is prettieſt, the cheek with the dimple, or the cheek without.

Pretty rogue!

Then the roſes on thoſe cheeks are ſhaded with a ſort of velvet down, that gives a delicacy to the glow of health.

Pretty rogue!

Her ſkin pure dimity, yet more fair, be⯑ing ſpangled here and there with a golden freckle.

Charming pretty rogue! how is the tone of her voice?

Remarkably pleaſing—but if you cou'd prevail on her to ſing you would be enchanted—ſhe is a nightingale—a Virginia nightingale—but come, come, her maid ſhall conduct you to her Anticham⯑ber.

Well, egad, I'll pluck up reſolution and meet her frowns intrepidly.

Aye! who her briſkly—win her and give me a proof of your addreſs, my little Solomon.

But hold—I expect my friend Carlos to call on me here—If he comes will you ſend him to me?

I will—Lauretta, come—ſhe'll ſhew you to the room—what! do you droop? here's a mourn⯑ful face to make love with.

SCENE II. LOUISA's Dreſſing Room.

Sir, my miſtreſs will wait on you preſently.

When ſhe's at leiſure—don't hurry her.

I wiſh I had ever practiſed a love-ſcene—I doubt I ſhall make a poor figure—I cou'd'nt be more afraid if I was going before the Inquiſition—ſo! the door [24] opens—yes, ſhe's coming—the very ruſtling of her ſilk has a diſdainful ſound.

Now dar'n't I look round for the ſoul of me—her beauty will certainly ſtrike me dumb if I do. I wiſh ſhe'd ſpeak firſt.

Sir, I attend your pleaſure.

So! the ice is broke, and a pretty civil be⯑ginning too! hem! madam—Miſs—I'm all atten⯑tion.

Nay, ſir, 'tis I who ſhou'd liſten, and you propoſe.

Egad, this is'nt ſo diſdainful neither—I be⯑lieve I may venture to look—No—I dar'n't—one glance of thoſe roguiſh ſparklers wou'd fix me again.

You ſeem thoughtful, Sir—let me per⯑ſuade you to ſit down.

So, ſo; ſhe mollifies apace—ſhe's ſtruck with my figure, this attitude has had its effect.

Come, ſir, here's a chair.

Madam, the greatneſs of your goodneſs overpowers me—that a lady ſo lovely ſhou'd deign to turn her beauteous eyes on me ſo.

You ſeem ſurpriz'd at my condeſcenſion.

Why, yes, madam, I am a little ſurprized at it; zounds! this can never be Louiſa—ſhe's as old as my mother.

But former prepoſſeſſions give way to my father's commands.

Her father! Yes, 'tis ſhe then—Lord, lord; how blind ſome parents are!

Signor Iſaac.

Truly, the little damſel was right—ſhe has rather a matronly air indeed! ah! 'tis well my af⯑fections are fixed on her fortune and not her perſon.

Signor, won't you ſit?

Pardon me, madam, I have ſcarce recover'd [25] my aſtoniſhment at—your condeſcenſion, madam—ſhe has the devil's own dimples to be ſure.

Nay, you ſhall not ſtand

I do not wonder, ſir, that you are ſurpriz'd at my affabi⯑lity—I own, Signor, that I was vaſtly prepoſſeſſed againſt you, and being teiz'd by my father, I did give ſome encouragement to Antonio, But then, ſir, you were deſcribed to me as a quite different perſon.

Aye, and ſo you was to me upon my ſoul, madam.

But when I ſaw you, I was never more ſtruck in my life.

That was juſt my caſe too, madam; I was ſtruck all on a heap for my part.

Well, ſir, I ſee our miſapprehenſion has been mutual—you expected to find me haughty and averſe, and I was taught to believe you a little black ſnub-noſed fellow, without perſon, manners or ad⯑dreſs.

Egad, I wiſh ſhe had anſwer'd her picture as well.

But, ſir, your air is noble—ſomething ſo liberal in your carriage, with ſo penetrating an eye, and ſo bewitching a ſmile.

Egad, now I look at her again, I don't think ſhe is ſo ugly.

So little like a jew, and ſo much like a gentleman.

Well, certainly there is ſomething pleaſing in the tone of her voice.

You will pardon this breach of decorum in praiſing you thus, but my joy at being ſo agreeably deceiv'd has given me ſuch a flow of ſpirits.

O dear lady, may I thank thoſe dear lips for this goodneſs

why, ſhe has a pretty ſort of velvet down, that's the truth on't.

O ſir, you have the moſt inſinuating man⯑ner, but indeed you ſhou'd get rid of that odious heard—one might as well kiſs an hedge hog.

Yes ma'am the razor wou'd'nt be amiſs for either of us

Could you ſavour me with a ſong?

Willingly, ſir, tho' I am rather hoarſe—Ahem!

Very like a Virginia nightingale—ma'am, I perceive you're hoarſe—I beg you will not diſtreſs—

O not in the leaſt diſtreſſed;—now, ſir.

Charming, ma'am! Enchanting! and truly your notes put me in mind of one that's very dear to me, a lady indeed, whom you greatly reſemble.

How! is there then another ſo dear to you?

O, no, ma'am, you miſtake; it was my mo⯑ther I meant.

Come, ſir, I ſee you are amazed and con⯑founded at my condeſcenſion, and know not what to ſay.

It is very true indeed, ma'am—but it is a judgment, I look on it as a judgment on me for de⯑laying to urge the time when you'll permit me to compleat my happineſs, by acquainting Don Jerome with your condeſcenſion.

Sir, I muſt frankly own to you that I can never be your's with my father's conſent.

Good lack! how ſo?

When my father in his paſſion ſwore he would never ſee me again 'till I acquieſced in his will—I alſo made a vow that I would never take a huſband from his hand—nothing ſhall make me break that oath—but if you have ſpirit and contrivance enough to carry me off without his knowledge, I'm yours.

Hum!

Nay, ſir, if you heſitate—

I'faith no bad whim this—if I take her at her word, I ſhall ſecure her fortune, and avoid making any ſettlement in return; thus I ſhall not only cheat the lover but the father too, Oh! cun⯑ning rogue, Iſaac! Ay, ay, let this little brain alone—Egad, I'll take her in the mind.

Well, ſir, what's your determination?

Madam, I was dumb only from rapture—I applaud your ſpirit, and joyfully cloſe with your propoſal; for which, thus let me on this lilly hand expreſs my gratitude.

Well, ſir, you muſt get my father's con⯑ſent to walk with me in the garden. But by no means inform him of my kindneſs to you.

No, to be ſure—that wou'd ſpoil all—But truſt me when tricking is the word—let me alone for a piece of cunning; this very day you ſhall be out of his power.

Well, I leave the management of it all to you, I perceive plain, ſir, that you are not one that can be eaſily outwitted.

Egad, you're right, madam—you're right I'faith.

Here's a gentleman at the door, who begs permiſſion to ſpeak with Signor Iſaac.

A friend of mine, ma'am, and a truſty friend—Let him come in.

He is one to be depended on, ma'am.

So, coz.

I have left Donna Clara at your lodgings; but can no where find Antonio.

Well I will ſearch him out myſelf—Carlos, you rogue, I thrive, I proſper.

Where is your miſtreſs?

There, you booby, there ſhe ſtands.

Why ſhe's damn'd ugly.

Huſh!

What is your friend ſaying, Signor?

O ma'am, he is expreſſing his raptures at ſuch charms as he never ſaw before, hey Carlos?

Aye, ſuch as I never ſaw before, indeed.

You are a very obliging Gentleman—well, Signor Iſaac, I believe we had better part for the preſent. Remember our plan.

O, ma'am, it is written in my heart, fixed as the image of thoſe divine beauties—adieu, Idol of my ſoul—yet, once more permit me.—

Sweet, courteous ſir, adieu.

Your ſlave eternally—come Carlos, ſay ſomething civil at taking leave.

I'faith, Iſaac, ſhe is the hardeſt woman to compliment I ever ſaw, however, I'll try ſomething I had ſtudied for the occaſion.

SCENE, —A Library.

Object to Antonio? I have ſaid it! his poverty, can you acquit him of that?

Sir, I own he is not over rich—but he is of as antient and honourable a family as any in the kingdom.

Yes, I know the beggars are a very anci⯑ent family in moſt kingdoms; but never in great re⯑pute, boy.

Antonio, ſir, has many amiable qualities.

But he is poor, can you clear him of that, I ſay—is he not a gay, diſſipated take, who has ſquan⯑der'd his patrimony?

Sir, he inherited but little; and that his ge⯑neroſity, more than his profuſeneſs, has ſtript him of—but he has never ſullied his honor, which, with his title, has outlived his means.

Pſha! you talk like a blockhead! nobili⯑lity without an eſtate is as ridiculous as gold-lace on a frize-coat.

This language, ſir, wou'd better become a Dutch or Engliſh trader, than a Spaniard.

Yes; and thoſe Dutch and Engliſh tra⯑ders, as you call them, are the wiſer people. Why, booby, in England they were formerly as nice as to birth and family as we are—but they have long diſco⯑ver'd [30] what a wonderful purifier gold is—and now no one there regards pedigree in any thing but a horſe—O, here comes Iſaac! I hope he has proſper'd in his ſuit.

Doubtleſs, that agreeable figure of his muſt have help'd his ſuit ſurprizingly.

How now?

Well, my friend, have you ſoften'd her?

O yes; I have ſoften'd her.

What, does ſhe come to?

Why, truly, ſhe was kinder than I ex⯑pected to find her.

And the dear little Angel was civil, hey!

Yes, the pretty little Angel was very civil.

I'm tranſported to hear it, well, and you were aſtoniſhed at her beauty, hey?

I was aſtoniſhed indeed! pray, how old is miſs?

How old? let me ſee—eight and twelve—ſhe is twenty.

Twenty?

Aye, to a month.

Then, upon my ſoul, ſhe is the oldeſt look⯑ing girl of her age in Chriſtendom.

Do you think ſo? but I believe you will not ſee a prettier girl.

Here and there one.

Louiſa has the family face.

Yes, egad, I ſhou'd have taken it for a family face, and one that has been in the family ſome time too.

She has her father's eyes.

Truly I ſhou'd have gueſs'd them to have been ſo—If ſhe had her mother's ſpectacles I believe ſhe would not ſee the worſe.

Her aunt Urſula's noſe, and her grand⯑mother's forehead.

Ay, faith, and her grandmother's chin to a hair.

Well, if ſhe was but as dutiful as ſhe's handſome—and harky, friend Iſaac, ſhe is none of your made up beauties—her charms are of the laſt⯑ing kind.

I ſaith, ſo they ſhou'd—for if ſhe be but twenty now, ſhe may double her age, before her years will overtake her face.

Why, zounds, maſter Iſaac, you are not ſneering, are you?

Why, now ſeriouſly, Don Jerome, do you think your daughter handſome?

By this light, ſhe's as handſome a girl as any in Seville.

Then, by theſe eyes, I think her as plain a woman as ever I beheld.

By St. Iago you muſt be blind.

No, no; 'tis you are partial.

How! have I neither ſenſe nor taſte? If a fair ſkin, fine eyes, teeth of ivory, with a lovely bloom, and a delicate ſhape—if theſe, with a hea⯑venly voice, and a world of grace, are not charms, I know not what you call beautiful.

Good lack, with what eyes a father ſees! As I have life, ſhe is the very reverſe of all this, as for the dimity ſkin you told me of, I ſwear 'tis a thorough nankeen as ever I ſaw; for her eyes, their utmoſt merit is in not ſquinting—for her teeth, where there is one of ivory; its neighbour is pure ebony, black and white alternately, juſt like the keys of an harpſicord. Then as to her ſinging, and heavenly voice—by this hand, ſhe has a ſhrill crack'd pipe, that ſounds for all the world like a child's trumpet.

Why, you little Hebrew ſcoundrel, do you mean to inſult me? out of my houſe, I ſay.

Dear ſir, what's the matter?

Why, this Iſraelite here, has the impu⯑dence to ſay your ſiſter's ugly.

He muſt be either blind or inſolent.

So, I find they are all in a ſtory. Egad, I believe I have gone too far.

Sure, ſir, there muſt be ſome miſtake—It can't be my ſiſter whom he has ſeen.

S'death! you are as great a fool as he, what miſtake can there be? did not I lock up Louiſa, and hav'n't I the key in my own pocket? And didn't her maid ſhew him into the dreſſing room? and yet you talk of a miſlake, no, the Portugueze meant to inſult me—and, but that this roof protects him, old as I am, this ſword ſhou'd do me juſtice.

I muſt get off as well as I can—her fortune is not the leſs handſome.

Don Jerome, come now, let us lay aſide all joking and be ſerious.

How?

Ha, ha, ha! I'll be hang'd if you hav'n't taken my abuſe of your daughter ſeriouſly.

You meant it ſo, did not you?

O mercy, no! a joke—juſt to try how angry it wou'd make you.

Was that all I'faith! I did'n't know you [33] had been ſuch a wag; ha, ha, ha! By St. Iago, you made me very angry tho', well, and you do think Louiſa handſome?

Handſome! Venus de Medicis was a ſybil to her.

Give me your hand, you little jocoſe rogue—Egad, I thought we had been all off.

So! I was in hopes this would have been a quarrel; but I find the Jew is too cunning.

Aye, this guſt of paſſion has made me dry—I am ſeldom ruffled; order ſome wine in the next room—let us drink the poor girl's health—poor Louiſa! ugly, heh! Ha, ha, ha! 'Twas a very good joke indeed.

And a very true one for all that.

And, Ferdinand, I inſiſt upon your drink⯑ing ſucceſs to my friend

Sir, I will drink ſucceſs to my friend with all my heart.

Come, little Solomon, if any ſparks of anger had remain'd, this would be the only way to quench them.

SCENE—VI. ISAAC's Lodgings.

Was ever truant daughter ſo whimſically circumſtanced as I am! I have ſent my intended huſ⯑band to look after my lover—the man of my father's choice is gone to bring me the man of my own, but how diſpiriting is this interval of expectation?

So, friend, is Antonio found?

I could not meet with him, lady; but I doubt not my friend Iſaac will be here with him pre⯑ſently.

O ſhame! you have uſed no diligence—Is this your courteſy to a lady who has truſted herſelf to your protection?

Indeed, madam, I have not been remiſs.

Well, well; but if either of you had known how each moment of delay weighs upon the heart of her who loves, and waits the object of her love, O, ye wou'd not then have trifled thus.

Alas! I know it well.

Were you ever in love then?

I was, lady: but while I have life will never be again.

Was your miſtreſs ſo cruel?

If ſhe had always been ſo, I ſhou'd have been happier.

As I live, here is your friend coming with Antonio—I'll retire for a moment to ſurprize him.

Indeed, my good friend, you muſt be miſtaken. Clara D'Almanza in love with me, and employ you to bring me to meet her! It is impoſſible!

That you ſhall ſee in an inſtant—Carlos, where is the lady?

In the next room is ſhe?

Nay, if that lady is really here, ſhe cer⯑tainly wants me to conduct her to a dear friend of mine, who has long been her lover.

Pſha! I tell you 'tis no ſuch thing—you are the man ſhe wants, and nobody but you. Here's, ado to perſuade you to take a pretty girl that's dying for you.

But I have no affection for this lady.

And you have for Louiſa, hey? but take my word for it, Antonio, you have no chance there—ſo you may as well ſecure the good that offers itſelf to you.

And could you reconcile it to your con⯑ſcience, to ſupplant your friend?

Piſh! Conſcience has no more to do with gallantry that it has with politicks—why, you are no honeſt fellow, if love can't make a rogue of you—ſo come,—do go in and ſpeak to her at laſt.

Well, I have no objection to that.

There—there ſhe is—yonder by the window—get in, do

now, Carlos, now I ſhall hamper him I warrant—ſtay—I'll peep how they go on—egid, he looks conſoundedly poſed—now ſhe's coaxing him—ſee, Carlos, he begins to come to—aye, aye, he'll ſoon forget his conſcience.

Look! now they are both laughing

Aye! ſo they are—yes, yes, they are laugh⯑ing at that dear friend he talked of—aye poor devil, they have outwitted him.

Now he's kiſſing her hand.

Yes, yes, faith, they're agreed—he's caught, he's entangled—my dear Carlos, we have brought it about. O, this little cunning head! I'm a Machiavel, a very Machiavel.

I hear ſomebody enquiring for you—I'll ſee who it is.

Well, my good friend, this lady has ſo entirely convinc'd me of the certainty of your ſucceſs at Don Jerome's, that I now reſign my pretenſions there.

You never did a wiſer thing, believe me—and as for deceiving your friend, that's nothing-at-all—tricking is all fair in love, isn't it, ma'am?

Certainly, ſir, and I am particularly glad to find you are of that opinion.

O lud, yes, ma'am—let any one outwit me that can, I ſay—but here let me join your hands—there, you lucky rogue, I wiſh you happily married from the bottom of my ſoul.

And I am ſure, if you wiſh it, no one elſe ſhould prevent it.

Now, Antonio, we are rivals no more, ſo let us be friends, will you?

With all my heart, Iſaac.

It is not every man, let me tell you, that would have taken ſuch pains, or been ſo generous to a rival.

No, faith, I don't believe there's another beſide yourſelf in all Spain.

Well, but you reſign all pretenſions to the other lady?

That I do moſt ſincerely.

I doubt you have a little hankering there ſtill.

None in the leaſt, upon my ſoul.

I mean after her fortune?

No, believe me. You are heartily wel⯑come to every thing ſhe has.

Well, I'faith, you have the beſt of the bar⯑gain as to beauty, twenty to one—now I'll tell you a ſecret—I am to carry off Louiſa this very even⯑ing.

Indeed.

Yes, ſhe has ſworn not to take a huſband from her father's hand—ſo, I've perſuaded him to truſt her to walk with me in the garden, and then we ſhall give him the ſlip.

And is Don Jerome to know nothing of this?

O lud no: there lies the jeſt! Don't you ſee that, by this ſtep, I over-reach him, I ſhall be en⯑titled [38] to the girl's fortune without ſettling a ducat on her, ha, ha, ha! I'm a cunning dog, a'n't I? A fly little villain, heh?

Ha, ha, ha! you are indeed!

Roguiſh you'll ſay—but keen, hey?—devil⯑iſh keen?

So you are indeed—keen—very keen.

And what a laugh we ſhall have at Don Je⯑rome's, when the truth comes out, hey?

Yes, I'll anſwer for't, we ſhall have a good laugh when the truth comes out, ha, ha, ha!

Here are the dancers come to practice the fandango you intended to have honour'd Donna Louiſa with.

O, I ſha'n't want them, but as I muſt pay them, I'll ſee a caper for my money—will you excuſe me?

Willingly.

Here's my friend, whom you may command for any ſervices, Madam, your moſt obedient—Antonio, I wiſh you all happineſs. O the eaſy blockhead! what a tool I have made of him?—This was a maſ⯑ter piece.

Carlos, will you be my guard again, and convey me to the convent of St. Catherine?

Why, Louiſa, why ſhould you go there?

I have my reaſons, and you muſt not be ſeen to go with me; I ſhall write from thence to my father, perhaps, when he finds what he has driven me to, he may relent.

I have no hope from him—O Louiſa, in theſe arms ſhould be your ſanctuary.

Be patient but for a little while—my father cannot force me from thence. But let me ſee you there before evening, and I will explain myſelf.

I ſhall obey.

Come, friend—Antonio, Carlos has been a lover himſelf.

Then he knows the value of his truſt.

You ſhall not find me unfaithful.

SCENE I. —A Library.

Why, I never was ſo amazed in my life! Louiſa gone off with Iſaac Mendoza! what, ſteal away with the very man whom I wanted her to marry—elope with her own huſband as it were—it is im⯑poſſible.

Her maid ſays, ſir, they had your leave to walk in the garden while you was abroad: The door by the ſhrubbery was found open, and they have not been heard of ſince.

Well, it is the moſt unaccountable affair! s'de th, there is certainly ſome infernal myſtery in it, I can't comprehend.

Here is a letter, ſir, from Signor Iſaac.

So, ſo, this will explain—ay, ‘"Iſaac Mendoza,"’ let me ſee.

‘"Deareſt ſir, you muſt, doubtleſs, be much ſurprized at my flight with your daughter"’—Yes, faith, and well I may. ‘"I had the happineſs to gain her heart at our firſt interview"’—The devil you had!—‘"But ſhe having unfortunately made a vow not to receive a huſband from your hands, I was obliged to comply with her whim"’ So, ſo! ‘"We ſhall ſhortly throw ourſelves at your feet, and I hope you will have a bleſſing, ready for one who will then be Your ſon-in-law, ISAAC MENDOZA."’

A whim, heigh? Why the devil's in the girl I think—This morning ſhe would die ſooner than have him, and before evening ſhe runs away with him. Well, well, my will's accompliſhed—let the motive be what it will—and the Portugueze, ſure, will never deny to fulfil the reſt of the article.

Sir, here's a man below who ſays he brought this from my young lady, Donna Louiſa.

How! yes, it is my daughter's hand in⯑deed! Lord, there was no occaſion for them both to write; well, let's ſee what ſhe ſays:

‘"My deareſt father, how ſhall I intreat your pardon for the raſh ſtep I have taken, how confeſs the mo⯑tive?"’ Piſh! hasn't Iſaac juſt told me the motive? one would think they weren't together when they wrote. ‘"If I have a ſpirit too reſentful of ill uſage, I have alſo a heart as eaſily affected by kindneſs"’—So, ſo, here the whole matter comes out, her reſent⯑ment [41] for Antonio's ill uſage, has made her ſenſible of Iſaac's kindneſs—yes, yes, it is all plain enough—well ‘"—I am not married yet, tho' with a man I am convinced adores me"’—Yes, yes, I dare ſay Iſaac is very fond of her—‘"but I ſhall anxiouſly expect your anſwer, in which, ſhould I be ſo fortunate as to receive your conſent, you will make completely happy, Your ever affectionate daughter, LOUISA."’

My conſent! to be ſure ſhe ſhall have it; egad, I was never better pleaſed—I have fulfilled my reſolution—I knew I ſhould—O there's nothing like obſtinacy—Lewis?

Let the man who brought the laſt letter wait, and get me a pen and ink below. I am impatient to ſet poor Louiſa's heart at reſt, holloa! Lewis! Sancho!

See that there be a noble ſupper provided in the Saloon to-night—ſerve up my beſt wines, and let me have muſic, d'ye hear?

Yes, ſir.

And order all my doors to be thrown open—admit all gueſts with maſks or without maſks—I'faith, we'll have a might of it—And I'll let them ſee how merry an old man can be.

SCENE II. —The New Piazza.

What, cou'd you gather no tidings of her? Nor gueſs where ſhe was gone? O Clara! Clara!

In truth, Sir, I could not—that ſhe was run away from her father, was in every body's mouth,—and that Don Guzman was in purſuit of her, was alſo a very common report—where ſhe was gone, or what was become of her, no one could take upon 'em to ſay.

S'death and fury, you blockhead, ſhe cant be out of Seville.

So I ſaid to myſelf, Sir! S'death and fury, you blockhead, ſays I, ſhe can't be out of Seville—then ſome ſaid, ſhe had hang'd herſelf for love, and others have it, Don Antonio had carried her off.

'Tis falſe, ſcoundrel! no one ſaid that.

Then I miſunderſtood 'em, Sir.

Go, fool, get home, and never let me ſee you again, till you bring me news of her.

O! how my fondneſs for this ungrateful girl, has hurt my diſpoſition?

So, I have her ſafe—and have only to find [44] a prieſt to marry us, Antonio now may marry Clara, or not, if he pleaſes.

What? what was that you ſaid of Clara?

O Ferdinand! my brother-in-law that ſhall be, who thought of meeting you.

But what of Clara?

I'faith, you ſhall hear.—This morning as I was coming down, I met a pretty damſel, who told me her name was Clara d'Almanza, and begg'd my protection.

How?

She ſaid ſhe had eloped from her father, Don Guzman, but that love for a young gentleman in Seville, was the cauſe.

O heavens! did ſhe confeſs it?

O yes, ſhe confeſs'd at once—but then, ſays the, my lover is not inform'd of my flight, nor ſuſpects my intention.

Dear creature! no more I did indeed! O, I am the happieſt fellow—well, Iſaac!

Why, then ſhe intreated me to find him out for her, and bring him to her.

Good heavens, how lucky! well, come along, let's loſe no time.

Zooks! where are we to go?

Why, did any thing more paſs?

Any thing more!—yes, the end on't was, that I was moved with her ſpeeches, and complied with her deſires.

Well, and where is ſhe?

Where is ſhe? why, don't I tell you I complied with her requeſt, and left her ſafe in the arms of her lover.

S'death! you trifle with me—I have never ſeen her.

You! O lud, no! How the devil ſhou'd you? 'Twas Antonio ſhe wanted, and with Antonio I left her.

Hell and madneſs

what Antonio d'Ercilla?

Aye, aye, the very man; and the beſt part [45] of it was, he was ſhy of taking her at firſt—He talk'd a good deal about honor and conſcience, and deceiving ſome dear friend; but, lord, we ſoon over ruled that.

You did?

O yes, preſently—ſuch deceit, ſays he—Piſh! ſays the lady, tricking is all fair in love—but then, my friend, ſays he—Pſha! damn your friend, ſays I—ſo, poor wretch, he has no chance—no, no—he may hang himſelf as ſoon as he pleaſes.

I muſt go, or I ſhall betray myſelf.

But ſtay, Ferdinand, you han't heard the beſt of the joke.

Curſe on your joke.

Goodlack! what's the matter now? I thought to have diverted you.

Be rack'd, tortur'd, damn'd—

Why, ſure you're not the poor devil of a lover are you? I'faith, as ſure as can be, he is—this is a better joke than t'other, ha, ha, ha!

What do you laugh, you vile, miſchievous varlet

but that you're beneath my anger; I'd tear your heart out.

O mercy! here's uſage for a brother in-law!

But, harky, raſcall tell me directly where theſe falſe friends are gone, or by my ſoul

For heavens ſake, now, my dear brother-in-law, don't be in a rage—I'll recollect as well as I can.

Be quick then!

I will, I will—but people's memories differ—ſome have a treacherous memory—now mine is a cowardly memory—it takes to its heels at ſight of a drawn ſword, it does I'faith—and I could as ſoon fight as recollect.

Zounds, tell me the truth, and I won't hurt you.

No, no; I know you won't, my dear brother-in-law—but that ill looking thing there.

What, then, you won't tell me?

Yes, yes, I will—I'll tell you all upon my ſoul, but why need you liſten ſword in hand?

Why there

now.

Why then, I believe they are gone to—that is my friend, Carlos, told me he had left Donna Clara—dear Ferdinand keep your hands off—at the Convent of St. Catherine.

St. Catherine!

Yes; and that Antonio was to come to her there.

Is this the truth?

It is indeed; and all I know, as I hope for life.

Well, coward, take your life—'tis that falſe, diſhonourable Antonio, who ſhall feel my vengeance.

Ay, ay, kill him—cut his throat and welcome.

But for Clara—infamy on her—ſhe is not worth my reſentment.

No more ſhe is, my dear brother-in-law, I'faith I would not be angry about her—ſhe is not worth it indeed.

'Tis falſe—ſhe is worth the enmity of princes.

True, true; ſo ſhe is, and I pity you ex⯑ceedingly for having loſt her.

S'death, you raſcal! how durſt you talk of pitying me.

O dear brother-in law, I beg pardon—I don't pity you in the leaſt, upon my ſoul.

Get hence, fool, and-provoke me no further—Nothing but your inſignificance ſaves you.

I'faith, then my inſignificance is the beſt friend I have—I'm going, dear Ferdinand—What a curſt, hot headed bully it is!

SCENE III. —The Garden of the Convent.

And you really wiſh my brother may not find you out?

Why elſe, have I conceal'd myſelf under this diſguiſe?

Why, perhaps, becauſe the dreſs becomes you, for you certainly don't intend to be a nun for life.

If, indeed, Ferdinand had not offended me ſo, laſt night.

Come, come, it was his fear of loſing you, made him ſo raſh.

Well, you may think me cruel—but I ſwear, if he were here this inſtant, I believe I ſhou'd forgive him.

I proteſt, Clara, I ſhall begin to think you are ſeriouſly reſolved to enter on your probation.

And, ſeriouſly, I very much doubt whether the character of a nun wou'd not become me beſt.

Why, to be ſure, the character of a nun is a very becoming one—at a maſquerade—but no pretty woman in her ſenſes ever thought of taking the veil for above a night.

Yonder I ſee your Antonio is returned—I ſhall only interrupt you; ah, Louiſa, with what happy eagerneſs you turn to look for him!

Well, my Louiſa, any news ſince I left you?

None—The meſſenger is not returned from my father.

Well, I confeſs, I do not perceive what we are to expect from him.

I ſhall be eaſier however, in having made the trial, I do not doubt your ſincerity, Antonio: but there is a chilling air round poverty that often kills affection, that was not nurs'd in it—If we would make love our houſehold god, we had beſt ſecure him a comfortable roof.

My father's anſwer I ſuppoſe.

My deareſt Louiſa, you may be aſſured that it contains nothing but threats and reproaches.

Let us ſee however

You jeſt, Louiſa.

Read—read.

'Tis ſo, by heavens! ſure there muſt be ſome miſtake; but that's none of our buſineſs—now, Louiſa, you have no excuſe for delay.

Shall we not then return and thank my father?

But firſt let the prieſt put it out of his power to recall his word—I'll fly to procure one.

Nay; if you part with me again, perhaps you may loſe me.

Come then—there is a friar of a neigh⯑bouring convent is my friend; you have already been diverted by the manners of a nunnery—let us ſee, whether there is leſs hypocriſy among the holy fathers.

I'm afraid not, Antonio—for in religion, as in friendſhip, they who profeſs moſt are ever the leaſt ſincere.

So, yonder they go, as happy as a mutual and confeſs'd affection can make them; while I am left in ſolitude. Heigho! love may perhaps excuſe the raſhneſs of an elopement from one's friend; but I am ſure; nothing but the preſence of the man we love can ſupport it—Ha! what do I ſee; Ferdinand as I live, how cou'd he gain admiſſion—by potent gold I ſuppoſe, as Antonio did—how eager and diſ⯑turbed he ſeems—he ſhall not know me as yet.

Yes, thoſe were certainly they—my infor⯑tion was right.

Pray, Signor, what is your buſineſs here?

No matter—no matter—Oh, they ſtop—

yes, that is the perfidious Clara indeed.

So, a jealous error—I'm glad to ſee him ſo mov'd.

Her diſguiſe can't conceal her—No, no, I know her too well.

Wonderful diſcernment! but Signor—

Be quiet, good nun, don't teize me—by heavens ſhe leans upon his arm, hangs fondly on it! O woman! woman!

But, Signior, who is it you want?

Not you, not you, ſo, prythee don't teize me. Yet pray ſtay—gentle nun, was it not Donna Clara d'Almanza juſt parted from you?

Clara d'Almanza, Signor, is not yet out of the garden.

Aye, aye, I knew I was right—and pray, is not that gentleman now at the porch with her, Antonio d'Ercilla?

It is indeed, Signior.

So, ſo, now but one queſtion more—can you inform me for what purpoſe they have gone away?

They are gone to be married, I believe.

Very well—enough—now if I don't marr their wedding.

I thought jealouſy had made lovers quick-ſighted, but it has made mine blind—Louiſa's ſtory accounts to me for this error, and I am glad to find I have power enough over him to make him ſo happy—but why ſhould not I be preſent at his ſurprize when undeceived? When he's thro' the porch I'll follow him, and, perhaps, Louiſa ſhall not ſingly be a bride.

SCENE. —A Court before the Priory.

What my friend Iſaac:

What, Antonio! wiſh me joy! I have Louiſa ſafe.

Have you? I wiſh you joy with all my ſoul.

Yes, I am come here to procure a prieſt to marry us.

So, then we are both on the ſame er⯑rand, I am come to look for Father Paul.

Hah! I am glad on't—but I'faith he muſt tack me firſt, my love is waiting.

So is mine—I left her in the porch.

Aye, but I am in haſte to get back to Don Jerome.

And ſo am I too.

Well, perhaps he'll ſave time and marry us both together—or I'll be your father and you ſhall be mine—Come along—but you're obliged to me for all this.

Yes, yes.

SCENE V. —A Room in the Priory.

Brother Francis, toſs the bottle about, and give me your toaſt.

Have we drank the abbeſs of St. Urſu⯑line?

Yes, yes; ſhe was the laſt.

Then I'll give you the blue-eyed nun of St. Catherine's.

With all my heart

Pray brother Auguſtine, were there any benefactions left in my abſence?

Don Juan Carduba has left an hundred ducats to remember him in our maſſes.

Has he! let them be paid to our wine mer⯑chant, and we'll remember him in our cups, which will do juſt as well. Any thing more?

Yes; Baptiſta, the rich miſer, who died laſt week, has bequeath'd us a thouſand piſtoles, and the ſilver lamp he uſed in his own chamber, to burn be⯑fore the image of St. Anthony.

'Twas well meant; but we'll employ his money better—Baptiſta's bounty ſhall light the living, not the dead—St. Anthony is not afraid to be left in the dark, though he was—ſee who's there.

Here's one without in preſſing haſte to ſpeak with Father Paul.

Brother Paul!

Here! how durſt you, fellow, thus abrupt⯑ly break in upon our devotions?

I thought they were finiſhed.

No they were not—were they, brother Francis?

Not by a bottle each.

But neither you or your fellows mark how the hours go—no, you mind nothing but the gratify⯑ing of your appetites; ye eat and ſwill, and ſleep, and gormandize, and thrive while we are waſting in mor⯑tification.

We aſk no more than nature craves.

'Tis falſe, ye have more appetites than hairs, and your fluſh'd, ſleek, and pampered ap⯑pearance is the diſgrace of our order—out on't—if you are hungry, can't you be content with the wholeſome roots of the earth, and if you are dry, isn't there the cryſtal ſpring

Put this away

and ſhew me where I'm wanted.

—ſo, you wou'd have drank it, if there had been any left. Ah, glutton! glutton!

SCENE VI. —The Court before the Priory.

A plaguy while coming this ſame father Paul—He's detain'd at veſpers I ſuppoſe, poor fellow.

No, here he comes. Good father Paul,

I crave your bleſſing.

Yes good father Paul, we are come to beg a favour.

What is it pray?

To marry us, good father Paul; and in truth, thou do'ſt look the very prieſt of Hymen.

In ſhort I may be called ſo; for I deal in repentance and mortification.

No, no, thou ſeem'ſt an officer of Hymen, becauſe thy preſence ſpeaks content and good humour.

Alas! my appearance is deceitful. Bloated I am, indeed, for faſting is a windy recreation, and it hath ſwoln me like a bladder.

But thou haſt a good freſh colour in thy face, father, roſy I'faith.

Yes, I have bluſh'd for mankind, till the hue of my ſhame is as fixed as their vices.

Good man!

And I have labour'd too—but to what purpoſe? they continue to ſin under my very noſe.

Eſecks, father, I ſhou'd have gueſs'd as much, for your noſe ſeems to be put to the bluſh more than any other part of your face.

Go, you're a wag.

But to the purpoſe, father—will you officiate for us?

To join young people thus clandeſtinely is not ſafe, and indeed, I have in my heart many weighty reaſons againſt it.

And I have in my hand many weighty reaſons for it.—Iſaac, hav'n't you an argument or two in our favour about you?

Yes, yes; here is a moſt unanſwerable purſe.

For ſhame, you make me angry; you forget that I am a Jacobin, and when importunate people have forced their traſh—aye, into this pocket here—or into this—why, then the ſin was theirs

fie! now, how you diſtreſs me?—I wou'd return it, but that I muſt touch it that way, and ſo wrong my oath.

Now then, come with us.

Aye, now give us your title to joy and rapture.

Well, when your hour of repentance comes, don't blame me.

No bad caution to my friend Iſaac

Well, well, father, do you do your part and I'll abide the conſequence.

Aye, and ſo will I

O, Antonio, Ferdinand is at the porch and enquiring for us.

Who? Don Ferdinand! he's not enquiring for me I hope.

Fear not, my love, I'll ſoon paciſy him.

Egad, you won't—Antonio, take my advice and run away; this Ferdinand is the moſt unmerciful dog! and has the curſedeſt long ſword! and upon my ſoul he comes on purpoſe to cut your throat.

Never fear, never fear.

Well, you may ſtay if you will—but I'll get ſome one to marry me, for by St. Iago, he ſhall never marry me again, while I am maſter of a pair of heels.

So, Sir, I have met with you at laſt.

Well, Sir?

Baſe treacherous man! whence can a falſe, deceitful ſoul like your's borrow confidence to look ſo ſteadily on the man you've injured?

Ferdinand, you are too warm—'tis true you find me on the point of wedding one I love beyond my life, but no argument of mine prevail'd on her to elope—I ſcorn deceit as much as you [56] —by heav'n, I knew not ſhe had leſt her father's till I ſaw her.

What a mean excuſe! you have wrong'd your friend then, for one, whoſe wanton forwardneſs anticipated your treachery—of this indeed, your Jew pander inform'd me; but let your conduct be conſiſtent, and ſince you have dar'd to do a wrong, follow me, and ſhew you have ſpirit to avow it.

Antonio, I perceive his miſtake—leave him to me.

Friend, you are rude to interrupt the union of two willing hearts.

No, meddling prieſt, the hand he ſeeks is mine.

If ſo, I'll proceed no further—lady, did you ever promiſe this youth your hand?

Clara, I thank you for your ſilence—I would not ſave heard your tongue avow ſuch falſity—be't your puniſhment to remember I have not re⯑proached you—Antonio, you are protected now, but we ſhall meet.

How's this! my ſiſter! Clara too—I'm confounded.

'Tis even ſo, good brother.

How! what impiety! Did the man want to marry his own ſiſter?

And arn't you aſham'd of yourſelf not to know your own ſiſter?

To drive away your own miſtreſs—

Don't you ſee how jealouſy blinds people?

Aye, and will you ever be jealous again?

Never—never—you, ſiſter, I know will forgive me—but now, Clara, ſhall I preſume—

No, no, juſt now you told me not to teize you ‘"Who do you want, good Signior?"’ ‘"not you, not you."’ O you blind wretch! but ſwear never to be jealous again, and I'll forgive you.

By all—

There, that will do—you'll keep the oath juſt as well.

But, brother, here is one, to whom ſome apology is due.

Antonio, I am aſham'd to think—

Not a word of excuſe, Ferdinand—I have not been in love myſelf, without learning that a lover's anger ſhou'd never be reſented—but come—let us retire with this good father, and we'll explain to you the cauſe of this error.

SCENE VII. —and Laſt. A Grand Saloon.

Be ſure now let every thing be in the beſt order—let all my Servants have on their merrieſt faces—but tell 'em to get as little drunk as poſſible till after ſupper. So, Lopez, where's your maſter? ſha'n't we have him at ſupper?

Indeed, I believe not, Sir—he's mad, I doubt; I'm ſure he has frighted me from him.

Aye, aye, he's after ſome wench, I ſuppoſe, a young rake! Well, well, we'll be merry without him.

Sir, here is Signior Iſaac.

So, my dear ſon-in law—there, take my bleſſing and forgiveneſs, but where's my daughter? where's Louiſa?

She's without impatient for a bleſſing, but almoſt afraid to enter.

O fly and bring her in.

Poor girl, I long to ſee her pretty face.

Come, my charmer! my trembling Angel!

Come to my arms. my—

why who the devil have we here?

Nay, Don Jerome, you promiſed her for⯑giveneſs; ſee how dear [...] droops

Droops indeed! Why, gad take me this is ſo Margaret—but where's my daughter, where's Louiſa?

Why here, before your eyes—nay, don't be ab [...]ſhed, my ſweet wife!

Wi [...]e with a vengeance! Why, zounds you have not married the Duenna!

O dear papa! you'll not diſown me ſure!

Papa! dear papa! Why, zounds, your impudence is as great as your uglineſs.

Riſe, my charmer, go throw your ſnowy arms about his neck, and convince him you are—

O Sir, ſo give me!

Help! murder!

What's the matter, Sir?

Why here, this damn'd Jew has brought an old Harridan to ſtrangle me.

Lord, it is his own daughter, and he is ſo hard hearted he won't forgive her.

Zounds and ſury, what's here now? who ſent for you, Sir, and who the devil are you?

This lady's huſband, Sir.

Aye, that he is I'll be ſworn; for I left 'em with the Prieſt, and was to have given her away.

You were?

Aye; that's my honeſt friend, Antonio; and that's the little girl I told you I had hamper'd him with.

Why, you are either drunk or mad—this is my daughter.

No, no; 'tis you are both drunk and mad, I think—here's your daughter.

Hark'ee, old iniquity, will you explain all this or not?

Come then, Don Jerome, I will—tho' our habits might inform you all—look on your daughter there, and on me.

What's this I hear?

The truth is, that in your paſſion this morning, you made a ſmall miſtake, for you turn'd your daughter out of doors, and lock'd up your humble ſervant.

O lud! O lud! here's a pretty fellow! to turn his daughter out of doors inſtead of an old Duenna.

And, O lud! O lud! here's a pretty fellow to marry an old Duenna inſtead of my daughter—but how came the reſt about?

I have only to add, that I remain'd in your daughter's place, and had the good fortune to engage the affections of my ſweet huſband here.

Her huſband! why, you old witch, do you think I'll be your huſband now! this is a trick, a cheat, and you ought all to be aſham'd of yourſelves.

Hark'ee, Iſaac, do you dare to complain of tricking—Don Jerome, I give you my ſword, this cunning Portugueze has brought all this upon himſelf, by endeavouring to over reach you by getting your daughter's fortune, without making any ſettle⯑ment in return.

Over-reach me!

'Tis ſo indeed, Sir, and we can prove it to you.

Why, gad take me, it muſt be ſo, or he cou'd never have put up with ſuch a face as Margaret's—ſo, little Solomon, I wiſh you joy of your wife with all my ſol.

Iſaac, tricking is all fair in love—let you alone for the plot.

A cunning dog ar'n't you? A ſly little villain, heh!

Roguiſh, perhaps; but keen, deviliſh keen.

Yes, yes, his aunt always call'd him little Solomon.

Why, the plague of Egypt upon you all—but do you think I'll ſubmit to ſuch an impoſition?

Iſaac, one ſerious word—you'd better be content as you are, for believe me, you will find, that in the opinion of the world, there is not a fairer ſubject for contempt and ridicule, than a knave become the dupe of his own art.

I don't care—I'll not endure this—Don Jerome, 'tis you have done this—you wou'd be ſo curſt poſitive about the beauty of her you lock'd up, and all the time, I told you ſhe was as old as my mother, and as ugly as the Devil.

Why you little inſignificant reptile.

That's right—attack him, Margaret.

Dares ſuch a thing as you pretend to talk of beauty—a walking rouleau—a body that ſeems to owe all its conſequence to the dropſy—a pair of eyes like two dead beetles in a wad of brown dough. A beard like an artichoke, with dry ſhrivell'd jaws that wou'd diſgrace the mummy of a monkey.

Well done, Margaret.

But you ſhall know that I have a brother who wears a ſword, and if you don't do me juſtice—

Fire ſeize your brother, and you too—I'll fly to Jeruſalem to avoid you.

Fly where you will, I'll follow you.

Throw your ſnowy arms about him, Margaret.

But Louiſa, are you really married to this modeſt gentleman?

Sir, in obedience to your commands I gave him my hand within this hour.

My commands!

Yes, Sir, here is your conſent under your own hand.

How? wou'd you rob me of my child by a trick, a falſe pretence, and do you think to get her fortune by the ſame means? why s'life, you are as great a rogue as Iſaac.

No, Don Jerome, tho' I have profited by this paper in gaining your daughter's hand, I ſcorn to obtain her fortune by deceit, there Sir,

now give her your bleſſing for a dower, and all the little I poſſeſs, ſhall be ſettled on her in return. Had you wedded her to a prince, he could do no more.

Why, gad take me, but you are a very extraordinary fellow, but have you the impudence to ſuppoſe no one can do a generous action but your⯑ſelf? Here Louiſa, tell this proud fool of yours, that he's the only man I know that wou'd renounce your fortune; and by my ſoul, he's the only man in Spain that's worthy of it—there, bleſs you both, I'm an obſtinate old fellow when I am in the wrong; but you ſhall now find me as ſteady in the right.

Another wonder ſtill! why, Sirrah! Ferdinand, you have not ſtole a nun, have you?

She is a nun in nothing but her habit, Sir—look nearer, and you will perceive 'tis Clara d'Almanza, Don Guzman's daughter, and with pardon for ſtealing a wedding, ſhe is alſo my wiſe.

Gadlbud, and a great fortune—Ferdinand, you are a prudent young rogue and I forgive you; and iſecks you are a pretty little damſel. Give your father-in-law a kiſs, you ſmiling rogue.

There old gentleman, and now mind you behave well to us.

Eſecks, thoſe lips ha'n't been chill'd by kiſſing beads—Egad, I believe I ſhall grow the beſt humour'd fellow in Spain—Lewis, Sancho, Carlos, d'ye hear, are all my doors thrown open? Our childrens weddings are the only hollidays our age can boaſt, and then we drain with pleaſure, the little ſtock of ſpirits time has left us.

But ſee, here come our friends and neigh⯑bours.

And I'faith we'll make a night on't, with wine and dance, and catches—then old and young ſhall join us.